


Entangled Particles

by Zinnith



Series: Entangled Particles [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Entangled Particles, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnith/pseuds/Zinnith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I don't usually take my groupies out for dinner, but you're pretty and you seem to have some kind of brain underneath all that hair, and I hate eating alone."</i>
</p><p>In which John is an Air Force pilot in Antarctica and Rodney writes novels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entangled Particles

**Author's Note:**

> In the summer of 2007, in the beginning of my journey into SGA fandom, I wrote this little story for a prompt at sg_15_fics, _For You_. Little did I know that it would develop into the AU that ate my life!
> 
> Writing style and skill is something that changes and develops over time, something this series is a testament to.
> 
> the_cephalopod made this beautiful. Thank you!

It was coincidence, really. It was May and John had finished War and Peace way ahead of schedule. He was now so completely and utterly bored that he would have happily read a Harlequin novel if someone had handed him one. This was Antarctica after all, and when you weren't flying you had two things to do; watch the snow or read.

He had found the book in a break room and picked it up because he thought that the title sounded interesting. He read the blurb on the back, scanned the author's profile (M. R. McKay, born in Toronto, resident of Sacramento, California, winner of this and that award, lives with his cat, yadda yadda yadda) and then opened the book.

He read the first page. Then he read it again. Then he sat down, turned the page over, and continued to read.

One hour later he was forced to stop reading so he could ferry a fuzzy-haired scientist over to the research-station out on the ice. The one that was so top-secret that the Air Force had made John sign a ton of paperwork just so he could fly out there, drop off some people, pick up another bunch, and fly back. He brought the book and read it while he waited. Had it been possible, he would have read it in-flight as well, but he thought that the silver-haired Air Force general who was his passenger on the way back might have some objections.

It was a book completely unlike anything else John had ever read. It was almost impossible to understand at first, but he kept reading in the hope that on the next page, he might come across the piece that would make the whole puzzle fit together.

Forty-seven hours later, and he had finished it, and was none the wiser than when he had started. So he turned back to the first page and started reading from the beginning again.

John kept the increasingly frayed paperback in his nightstand drawer. He taped the pages together when they started falling apart. Every time he re-read it, he found another perfect phrase that he had to underline. It was human relationships explained as physics, and it was a beautiful, brilliant, _genius_ piece of work.

By the end of the summer, he had read the book five times, and had started on the sixth. It was then that the thought hit him, the relationship he had with this book had lasted longer than his affairs with most women.

* * *

John's father died in September and he had to go to Houston to make arrangements for the funeral. The last time the two of them had spoken, long before the whole Afghanistan debacle, John's father had stated that he no longer had a son. So the entire affair was, at best, profoundly uncomfortable.

When it all got too much, John walked. It was the best thing he could think of to do when he couldn't fly. He would just walk out the door, decide on a direction by the flip of a coin, and set off. It was coincidence, really, that on one late afternoon he walked by a tiny little bookshop and saw a sign in the window that read: _Book signing today! Meredith R. McKay._

What were the odds?

John stepped inside and was immediately accosted by the smell of dust and unread books. The shop was even smaller on the inside than it had looked from the outside. There were exactly three people within; a little old lady standing behind the counter, a broad-shouldered man with a coffee-mug staring morosely out of the window, and a pretty red-blonde woman sitting at a rickety table lording over a pile of books.

There had been no picture of the author in John's edition of the novel, but he applied his best logic to the situation, walked straight up to the woman at the table and asked, "Excuse me, are you Meredith McKay?"

She gave him a bright smile and was just about to answer, when the heavyset man with the coffee-mug interrupted, "No, she's not Meredith McKay, I am, and it's not Meredith, it's Rodney, and it doesn't matter what paper you're from, I'm not giving any interviews."

John raised an eyebrow. "Actually," he said, eyes darting between them. "I was just wondering if you, either one of you, is the M. R. McKay who wrote Entangled Particles."

The blonde woman stood up and reached out her hand: "Laura Cadman," she said. "I'm Mr. McKay's assistant." She sent the man a glare. "Don't mind him, he gets grumpy when he hasn't eaten."

"_Entangled Particles_!" the man, who John supposed had to be McKay, exclaimed. "Where did you dig up that old thing? And just for the record," he glared back at Laura, "I would be significantly less grumpy if I hadn't been sitting here _all afternoon_ for a grand total of _seven customers_."

"Eight," Laura corrected, with a nod in John's direction.

John felt a bit like he had just stepped into some bizarre sit-com, but after spending five days listening to his relatives discuss whose fault it was that Aunt Glenda was no longer on speaking terms with Cousin Bart and why Uncle Harry was such an old geezer, he had determined that the best way of coping was to just act like everything was perfectly normal.

"I'm not really a customer," he admitted. "I was just passing and saw the sign outside. I read the book and liked it, so I thought…"

"Don't get me started on the sign!" McKay hissed, with an even darker look aimed at the little old lady behind the counter.

"See Rodney, this is why none of the critics like you," Laura said. Her remark apparently fell on deaf ears. McKay was halfway through a rant about how, when you invited an author to a book signing, the least you could do was to get his _name_ right. The little old lady looked like she wanted to take him over her knee and spank some manners into him.

"Okay," John said. This was getting too weird even for him. "I'm just going to leave now."

McKay turned around so fast that coffee splashed out of his mug and landed on his shirt. "No! No, no, no, no, you came in here to see me, and here I am, and you said you liked the book?"

John looked at the man. He had never really thought about what M. R. McKay would be like in person, but if he had been expecting something, this wasn't it. "You're kind of a jerk, aren't you?" he asked.

For a guy who had just been insulted, McKay looked strangely unfazed. "Yes, yes, I know, people tell me that all the time. Enough about that, what about the book?"

"Well", John said. "It's pretty smart."

"Again with the obvious!" McKay replied, once again with a hand gesture that spilled the rest of the coffee on top of the stack of books. Laura jumped forward to try to save them, while making a face at John that probably meant something like, 'Please stroke my crazy employer's ego a bit so we can get out of here sometime today.'

"Well," John said. "I didn't get it at first. But then I took another look at the title and everything sort of fell into place."

"Yes?" McKay said, urging him on with a circling hand-motion.

"The way all the characters define themselves by looking at others. _Entangled Particles._ Quantum entanglement. It's pretty smart."

McKay turned to Laura. "See?" he said, a wide grin on his face. "He got it! Kavanagh criticized the hell out of it, but this hobo who just walked in from the street _gets_ it!"

John looked at his reflection in the window, the paint-stained jeans, the t-shirt that was beginning to come apart in the seams, and said, "I'm a pilot, actually."

The look on McKay's face was part disbelief and part interest. "Really? Well, I won't hold that against you. Have you eaten?"

"No?" John said. He had a feeling that he'd just lost track of the conversation again.

McKay put the empty coffee-mug down and rubbed his hands together. "Perfect! I don't usually take my groupies out for dinner, but you're pretty and you seem to have some kind of brain underneath all that hair, and I hate eating alone."

John looked at Laura again and she sent a look back that said, 'You're on your own here, buddy'. _'Groupie?'_ he thought, and then, _'What's wrong with my hair?'_ and then he found himself saying, "Sure, why not."

* * *

They left Laura and the little old lady to clean up McKay's spilled coffee and went in search of a restaurant. John was willing to eat pretty much anything, especially since McKay was paying. That was during the first thirty minutes of the search. After that, he just wanted McKay to _pick a place_ already. Every restaurant they came across was either too snobby, too boring, probably flagged by the health services, or had lemon in everything. ("What's wrong with lemon?" John asked. "Nothing, if you want to see me swell up and stop breathing and _die_," McKay replied.)

At last they ended up in a small Greek place where McKay ordered moussaka for himself and a big meze plate for John and beer for both of them. The restaurant was family-owned, cosy and with portions large enough to feed two.

"I wasn't even supposed to be a writer," McKay said between bites. "If I'd stayed in astrophysics, I would probably have won the Nobel by now. But then my sister decided I needed a hobby and had her English-professor husband drag me to a course in creative writing. _Entangled Particles_ was the result."

"Mhmm," John said. He had quickly realised that once McKay started talking, he required very little input to continue. It was a mystery how the guy managed to get any food into his mouth when sounds kept coming out of it.

"It was Caleb who sent it in," McKay went on. "I hadn't the slightest idea until I got a call from the publisher, and then the damn book came out and I got a stipend. Jeannie, that's my sister, said I had to write more, and once I got started I found I just couldn't _stop_."

As John listened, he thought that McKay was a bit like his books. Hard to understand at first, but so fascinating that you just couldn't tear yourself away. McKay talked more and faster than anyone John had ever met. His hands were constantly moving, accompanying his words.

They had finished their food and moved on to dessert (fudge cake with whipped cream), when McKay suddenly stopped talking and put his fork down. "Hey, I just realized, I've told you the whole story of my life and you haven't said a word. What about you?"

John thought for a moment. There wasn't really much to say. "I'm in the Air Force", he said. "I like Ferris wheels, college football and anything that goes faster than two hundred miles per hour."

"Air Force?" McKay said. "And here I was thinking you were almost intelligent. Why on earth would you want to join the military?"

"To piss off my father, mostly," John said. In reality, it was a little more complicated than that, but he didn't feel like telling McKay everything about his life. Most of it was messy and not meant for the ears of a stranger. "That, and I get to fly."

"I always wanted to go into space," McKay said dreamily around a mouthful of cake. "But I have a little trouble with claustrophobia."

"I can see where that might be a problem", John said.

They stayed until the restaurant closed, and then stood outside and talked for another ten minutes, until McKay looked at his watch and said, "I'd better get back to the hotel before Laura starts thinking that you've kidnapped me."

"Yeah," John said. "I should get home too. Thanks for dinner."

McKay waved it away. "Thanks for the company. It's not often I meet someone who actually understands what I'm writing."

They shook hands, and headed off in different directions. John was almost around the corner, when he heard McKay shout after him, "Hey, wait! I forgot to ask your name!"

John turned around. "It's John!" he yelled. "Major John Sheppard!"

"Great!" McKay shouted. "I'll see you around!"

"I doubt it!" John answered. "I live in Antarctica!"

* * *

John had been back at McMurdo for about a week when the first package arrived. He hadn't ordered anything, so it was a surprise when he opened it and found a coffee-stained copy of _Duality_ by M. R. McKay. On the first page was written in dark-blue ink: _I just remembered that I never signed anything for you. Read this and tell me what you think. / M. Rodney McKay_

Underneath, McKay had scribbled his e-mail address.

John laughed a little and then he read the book. It was just as brilliant as _Entangled Particles_, every bit as perfect, and still completely unique. He thought about it for a while and sent a single word e-mail to McKay, _Cool_.

McKay's response was two pages long and John could almost hear the whining. He replied with a five-page review, comparing _Duality_ to everything he had read since he was ten, including _Winnie the Pooh._

The answer read, _I think I preferred 'cool'._

After that, they exchanged e-mails every other day. John wrote about Antarctica, the snow and the ice, climbing Ob Hill on a clear day and seeing half the continent, all the different shades of white.

McKay wrote about publishing parties, idiot critics, his cat, Newton, and Laura's new boyfriend, some Scottish geneticist by the name of Beckett (who seemed like an okay guy, but Rodney was keeping an eye on him just in case).

John got some leave in October, decided to go to New Zealand, and asked McKay for his post address so he could send a card. The one John chose was from Kawarau Bridge, where he went bungee jumping for the first time in his life and wondered why he hadn't done it before. On an impulse, he also sent a stuffed kiwi he had found in a gift-shop.

When he came back, McKay had sent him a mail with the heading _YOU ARE INSANE,_ followed by a long list of statistics, detailing all the different ways you could get injured during a bungee jump. McKay finished the message, _Newton likes the kiwi. By the way, next time you get leave, don't do stupid stuff like throwing yourself off a bridge. Come here instead. /Rodney._

By November, John had come to the conclusion that he was unlikely to progress any further in the military. It wasn't that he didn't like Antarctica, because he did. It was about as far from Afghanistan you could possibly go and still be on the same planet. It was cold and full of ice and no one was shooting at him.

The thing was that he was lonely. Rodney's e-mails and occasional care-packages were the only contact John had with the outside world, and he lived for them. Only his body was at McMurdo. His spirit was in Sacramento with Rodney, Newton, Laura and Carson Beckett.

There were a lot of miles between them, but they were all John had.

* * *

Going down in a chopper was pretty much the same wherever you were. Things breaking, lights blinking, tiny little alarms grating on your concentration, and the frantic chanting of _stay up stay up stay up_ as if the power of your mind alone could keep several thousand pounds of metal in the air. Then that moment of eerie calm right before you hit the ground when you realise that it's out of your hands and all you can do is hold on and hope for the best.

John awoke feeling cold. That was different from going down in Afghanistan, where everything had been hot and dry, with sand in his eyes and the sound of gunfire in the distance. He felt numb, but relatively pain-free at the moment, so he raised his head to try to get a grasp of the situation.

He found himself lying on his back in the snow, some distance from the smoking wreck of the helicopter. John couldn't remember getting out, but he must have at some point. He could smell ice, and burning rubber, and blood. When he looked down he saw that his leg was at an unnatural angle, and there was a large bloodstain on his pants. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, he couldn't feel his hands or feet, and he was getting more and more sleepy with every passing second. John came to the conclusion that he was probably not all that far away from hypothermia, maybe with a concussion thrown in for good measure, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He lay back down and watched the sky that had been so clear and blue up until that gust of wind had blown snow all over the windshield and he'd lost orientation. It was pretty and John drifted a little, thinking about how maybe it wouldn't be all bad if no one found him. It wasn't as if anyone would miss him much.

Then he thought of Rodney; how they e-mailed each other every day now, and what Rodney would think when the mails stopped. That's when John realised that he actually had a _friend_, someone who might worry about him. Rodney had taken the trouble to find out his address and send him a book after only meeting him once. He had shared his _life_ with John.

When he heard the distant sound of rotor-blades, John felt relief. Things got blurry and vague after that, but he knew one thing, he wasn't going to die alone on the ice.

* * *

John's leg was in such bad shape that they had to ship him back to the States. The doctors in San Antonio told him that he had a good chance of making a complete recovery, but that it would take time and a few more operations. John's only thought was whether or not he could fly again. Other than that, he didn't think much at all. The nurses were pretty and he was too doped up on painkillers to worry about anything else.

When the day nurse told John he had a visitor, it came as a complete surprise. The guys from McMurdo had sent a get-well-soon card, but John hadn't expected anyone to come see him.

It was an even bigger surprise when the door opened and Rodney McKay came in brandishing an enormous bouquet of flowers in one hand and a strangely intense expression on his face. John hadn't seen him in person since that first time, and now he didn't quite know how to act.

Rodney threw the flowers on John's bed, collapsed in a chair and went from silent straight into full-blown rant mode in under a second.

"You disappear off the face of the earth for two _weeks_, and when I _finally_ get hold of someone at McMurdo they tell me you _crashed_! We were worried _sick_! Laura thought you had been eaten by a polar-bear, even though everyone knows that polar-bears live on the _North_ Pole, and why the hell didn't you _write_? "

John watched Rodney talk, how Rodney's large hands moved in sync with his mouth, how Rodney's hair was a little dishevelled, and felt himself start to smile because he had never been so _happy_ to see anyone in his life.

"You came to visit me," he said.

Rodney stopped talking mid-sentence and stared at John. "Of _course_ I came to visit! What did you expect? One of the few friends I have is in the hospital and you thought I wouldn't come?"

John just smiled. He thought that he probably looked pretty goofy. Rodney stared at him a little longer before he smiled back. "Good drugs?" he asked.

"Really good drugs," John said, and then they both began to laugh. They didn't stop until the day nurse came back to see what the racket was all about.

"I don't think I'll be going back," John said a little later, when Rodney had calmed down a bit.

"Thank god", Rodney said. He had made himself at home in the chair beside John's bed. "It'll be much easier to keep in touch with you when you're not living on some iceberg in the middle of nowhere. Have you thought about where you'll be living?"

"I just decided it won't be in Antarctica," John said. "Beyond that, I have no idea."

"Tell you what," Rodney said, grabbing the pen from his breast pocket, and reaching over to scribble something in the margin of the newspaper on John's bed stand. "This is my phone number. Call me as soon as you know when you'll get out of here, okay? You can stay with me."

John wondered if it was normal to offer someone you had only met twice a place to stay, but then again, 'normal' was not a word one could use to describe any aspect of Rodney McKay. "That would be great, thanks," was all he said.

His life might just have been thrown upside down, but at least now he had a plan.

* * *

John arrived in Sacramento with a medical discharge, a duffle bag's worth of belongings, and two titanium screws in his leg. He was still walking on crutches and the flight had been pure hell.

Rodney was supposed to pick him up at the airport, but was nowhere to be seen. John waited for a while, thought about calling, then decided against it, because how pathetic did that seem?

So, he slung the duffle over his shoulder, cursed himself for not getting a backpack instead, and hobbled to the terminal to find a place to sit down. He needed to get off his leg for a moment and call a cab.

He managed the first two before a familiar figure came rushing towards him. It wasn't Rodney, but it was the next best thing; Laura Cadman.

"Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting!" she panted when she reached the bench John had claimed as his own.

"No problem," John said, and then, "Where's Rodney?" It just slipped out, and probably didn't sound all that cool, but the horrible thought, _'he changed his mind; he doesn't want to see me'_ kept trying to rear its ugly head.

"It's my fault, I'm really sorry," Laura said. "It's my job to make sure he's in the right place at the right time." She exhaled loudly and brushed her hair away from her face. "Rodney's working on a new novel and he's not… well, he's not exactly living in the world of normal people right now."

"I don't think he ever is," John said, smiling because it was such a relief to see a familiar face, even if it wasn't Rodney.

"That's true", Laura replied with a grin. "Oh, it's so good to see you! We were so worried when we heard about the crash! Is it okay if I hug you? I know we only met the once, but Rodney's been reading your e-mails out loud so it feels like I've known you forever."

"Of course", John said, and got to his feet so Laura could embrace him. He hadn't known that Rodney had shared his e-mails, but the thought made a little blaze of pure joy flare up in his belly.

"Okay", Laura said after she finally released him. "Let's go and see if Rodney's managed to get dressed yet. We're all supposed to meet Carson for dinner, if you feel up to it."

"That sounds great", John said. He was tired and his leg hurt, but he was pretty sure he would rally after some rest and a couple of ibuprofen.

Laura grabbed his duffle and led him out of the terminal to her car. As she drove, John settled back in the passenger seat, listening to her chatting about everything and nothing, as the streets of Sacramento flashed by outside. New city, new people. So far, John felt pretty okay with it.

* * *

Rodney opened his door dressed only in boxer shorts and a faded t-shirt that read, _I'm with genius_. When he saw John and Laura outside, he blinked, looked at his wristwatch, and blinked again.

"Did you not listen to one word I said to you on the phone?" Laura asked, pushing her way past Rodney into the apartment.

"Huh?" Rodney said, scratching his belly. He stepped aside so John could enter. "But that was like ten minutes ago?"

"It was _two hours_ ago," Laura said as she put John's duffle down on Rodney's couch. Rodney gave the both of them a confused look and then closed the front door.

"I must have lost track of time," he said, and then turned to John. "You look like hell. How was the trip?"

"Awful," John said, leaning heavily on his crutches. His leg was killing him and he was beginning to re-evaluate the plans for dinner. That couch looked really comfy and he could quite happily sink down on it and not move for the rest of the day.

Rodney had a big studio apartment with high ceilings and large windows. There was an enormous flat-screen TV mounted on one wall and a number of framed diplomas on another. The layout of the place was light and airy, and would have looked really nice had it not been for the various piles of laundry and dirty dishes spread out over every available surface.

Laura looked around in disgust. "All right, let's get this show on the road. You…" she pointed to Rodney, "…go shower and get dressed, Carson will be here in an hour and you smell. And you…" she pointed to John, "…sit down before you fall over. Don't you have any medication you're supposed to take?"

"I'm fine", John protested as he collapsed onto the couch. Simultaneously, Rodney whined, "But I have a _scene_ to finish!"

"No arguing! Rodney, you can finish your scene tomorrow, today you have a dinner reservation to keep and a guest to entertain. John, take your pills _now_ so you can get some rest before we leave. I'll get you a glass of water."

Laura disappeared into the kitchen area and John turned to Rodney. "She's a little bossy, don't you think?"

"She's a nightmare," Rodney said, sniffing his own armpit curiously.

"Without me, you'd starve to death buried in your own filth!" came Laura's voice from the kitchen.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, and Rodney had showered and was dressed in clean clothes. John's painkillers had kicked in and he was feeling somewhat more human. He was making friends with Newton, who had come sauntering out of Rodney's bedroom soon after they arrived to see what was going on.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to pick you up," Rodney said as he plopped down on the couch next to John.

"It's okay," John said. He was scratching Newton's belly, and the cat was lying with all four feet in the air, purring contentedly. Rodney watched with something similar to jealousy.

"I meant to," Rodney said. "I had the alarm set and everything, and then Laura called to remind me, but it was going so well and I thought; if I stop now, I won't be able to pick it up again."

"I said it was okay," John repeated.

"Okay," Rodney echoed. "Okay, that's good. I don't want you to think I _forgot_ about you or anything, I've, ah, I've been looking forward to you coming here since I was in San Antonio actually."

John looked up, saw Rodney's pitiful expression and smiled. "It's really okay. I understand."

"Good," Rodney said, relaxing a bit. "By the way, is it okay if you sleep here on the couch? It folds out to a pretty comfortable bed. I'd do it myself, but I have a bad back and I need my ergonomic mattress..."

"Yes, it's fine. Jesus, Rodney, stop trying to be a good host, because you really suck at it," John said smiling.

"I do, don't I?" Rodney agreed, and they both began to laugh. It suddenly struck John just how much he had missed this, had missed _Rodney_, and how good it was to finally be here. He continued to chuckle, long after Rodney had stopped, panting for breath.

When the bell rang, Laura rushed to open the door. Carson Beckett turned out to be more than an 'okay' guy. He had unruly dark hair, a thick Scottish brogue, and it was clear that he worshipped the ground on which Laura walked. John liked him immediately.

They went to an Italian place not far from Rodney's apartment building that had, according to Rodney, 'the best lasagne on the continent'. Despite John's earlier reservations, dinner was great. John complained about his time in the hospital and told them how good it was to be out in the world again. Carson talked about his job, that had something to do with gene therapy, and Laura only had to confiscate Rodney's pen once, when he started to scribble on his napkin.

For dessert, they all had tiramisu which Rodney ate with relish whilst emitting soft orgasmic-sounding noises. By the time they arrived back home, John was exhausted. As he watched Rodney turning his closet upside down in the search of clean sheets and towels, he knew that coming to Sacramento had been the right choice. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

John stayed with Rodney for two weeks before he began to itch for a place of his own. He wasn't one to complain, but he needed a little privacy. Rodney would often wake him up in the middle of the night with problems like, 'How much math is the average person able to understand?', 'What sounds better to you, this word or that?', or John's favourite so far, 'I have to kill someone and I can't decide who!' John just rolled over and said, "Rodney, ask me in the morning. You know, when _normal_ people are awake?"

So John found a small apartment, not too far away from Rodney's place. He bought a TV, a couch, and some basic kitchen appliances. Laura bought him a cactus as a house-warming gift. He thought about getting a dog, because he had always wanted one, but he never got around to it. A pet would mean that this was permanent; that he was here to stay. John had spent so much time in temporary housing on bases all over the world that the thought of spending the rest of his life in one place scared him a little.

He got rid of the crutches soon afterwards, but still had to see a physical therapist three times a week. The therapist, Carla, was a tiny curly haired woman and John was certain that she must have been a torturer in a past life. She was also something of a health-nut and kept trying to make him eat soybeans and tofu and drink bright green algae-shakes. Rodney took one look at the shake and stated that nothing that colour could possibly be meant for human consumption.

When John wasn't at Rodney's, or seeing Carla, he took up his habit of walking again. He had more or less accepted the idea that he wasn't a pilot anymore, but he still hadn't decided what exactly to do with himself. Sacramento wasn't a cheap place to live and he needed to find a job. He had some money saved which would be enough to pay for rent and food until his leg had healed, but after that he didn't have much of a plan.

Both Laura and Carson promised to keep an eye open for John if anything came up. Laura even made him sit down and make a list of things he wanted to do, things he could do if he didn't find anything else, and things he absolutely refused to do, and then rate them on a 1-10 scale. John fled when she took out the coloured markers. Rodney was too busy fretting over his book, and, like he said, "The last time I had to look for a job was in college, so what do I know about job hunting?

* * *

Carson proposed to Laura on Valentine's Day, and the two of them took a week off to go on vacation. Laura made John promise to check in with Rodney every day to make sure he didn't get so caught up in his writing that he forgot to eat or to feed Newton. She left all the contact information she could think of in case there was an emergency, and a long list of things Rodney was allergic to. John didn't pay much attention. After all, he figured one writer couldn't be _that_ hard to look after.

That optimism lasted until the third day when he found lying Rodney on the floor beside his desk. John didn't think anything was wrong at first; Rodney often wrote on one of his several laptops so he could work anywhere in the apartment – the floor was not the strangest place he had been spotted. However, John started to worry, when he realised that Rodney wasn't moving. He quickly dropped the DVD's he had brought and hurried over to his friend.

"Rodney?"

Rodney looked up slowly. He had a dazed look on his face, but when he caught sight of John, he smiled and raised his hand in a floppy wave, "Hi."

"Hi," John said and waved back. "What are you doing on the floor? Is this some kind of method-writing thing? Embrace your inner dust-bunny?"

"I fell over," Rodney said weakly.

"I can see that, "John answered and hunched down beside Rodney, checking his vitals. There was no fever, but Rodney was pale and his skin was kind of clammy. "How did you fall? Did you hit your head?"

"I stood up and then I fell over," Rodney said.

That was all John could get out of Rodney, and now he was really worried. He wondered if he should call an ambulance, but decided to call Laura first. Rodney would never forgive him if this was just some kind of strange writer-thing and John overreacted and brought EMT:s into the mix.

Laura answered on the fifth ring. She sounded happy and there were people talking in the background, like she was in a café or restaurant. John felt bad for disturbing her, but he had no idea what to do.

"Hey, it's me," he said.

"John? Oh my god, what did he do?"

"I'm not sure," John said, keeping one eye on the woozy-looking Rodney. "I just came over, and he seems a bit… off. Like he hit his head or something."

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "Did he eat? Ask him if he's eaten."

"Right, hold on." John knelt back down beside Rodney and shook him gently. "Rodney? Hey, buddy? Laura wants to know if you've eaten."

"Sure, yeah, I've eaten," Rodney said, still with that dazed look, like he couldn't quite focus on John. "I had breakfast."

"It's six o'clock in the evening," John said, and then went back to the phone. "I don't think he's had anything to eat all day. He's acting all weird, what's wrong?"

"Oh." Laura sounded relieved. "It's just his hypoglycaemia acting up. He's supposed to eat every four hours or so. There should be some sport drink in the fridge, give him that and make sure he has something to eat, and he'll come around."

John hung up feeling reassured. He helped Rodney up off the floor and into the kitchen area, and went to raid the fridge.

"That's it," he said twenty minutes later, when Rodney had drunk a bottle of Gatorade and eaten some leftover pasta John had found. "I'm camping out on your couch for the rest of the week. If Laura comes home and finds you dead through neglect, she'll blame me."

"There's no need for that," Rodney protested. He was looking much better and John was no longer afraid that he would pass out and go into a coma or something. "I was just too caught up in writing and forgot to set my alarm, I don't need a babysitter!"

"No, you just stood up and fell over," John said with a grin. It hadn't been very funny at the time, but now when Rodney was up and bitching again, John could start to see the funny side of the situation.

Rodney mumbled darkly around a mouthful of pasta, something about how he would never get anything done with John here, and how deadlines were horrible looming things meant to stifle his creativity.

"Come on, Rodney," John said, not prepared to take no for an answer. "We'll have fun! It'll be like a sleep-over, we can stay up all night, watch science fiction, eat junk food, and braid each other's hair."

"Yes, because we never do that," Rodney responded with a scowl. "I mean, not so much with the hair-braiding, but the rest, and I have a _novel_ to write!"

"I brought Doctor Who and Torchwood," John said and waited for Rodney's face to rearrange itself into an interested expression.

"Doctor Who?" Rodney's eyebrows flew up. "Hmm... well, maybe we can watch a couple of episodes..."

John stood up and patted his back. "Eat up, buddy. I'll start the DVD-player."

* * *

John wasn't sure exactly how it happened. It was the day after Rodney's little mishap and they were sitting on Rodney's couch, watching an episode of Torchwood that they both had seen before. Rodney had been writing all day and was pretty zoned out. He was watching the screen through half-open eyelids whilst absentmindedly munching Cheetos. John had always been fascinated by the cyberwoman, and the first time she appeared on-screen, he leaned over and said to Rodney, "She's kind of hot."

Rodney turned his head to look at John and said with a mouth full of Cheetos, "_You're_ kind of hot."

The next thing John knew, Rodney was kissing him. It was all a bit too much for John's brain to process. Rodney smelled a little like sweat and tasted a lot like fake cheese, but the kiss was good, very good. John decided to worry about what this all meant at a later date and quickly got with the programme.

They sat on the couch and made out for a while. John wondered briefly if he should be a little weirded out about the whole thing, but this was _Rodney_, and it was Rodney's _mouth_, and Rodney's little _noises_, and hot and wet and _oh so good_ and he was so hard he hurt.

Rodney suddenly broke the kiss, panting and staring at John like he was something beautiful and precious. "Oh god, you're so, can I please, I have to…" and then slid off the couch to kneel between John's legs, opened his pants, and swallowed his cock down whole.

John's head fell back against the backrest with a _thud_. It was kind of surreal; half of his mind was occupied with the thought that this was his best friend, his very _male_ best friend, giving him the best blowjob of his _life_, while the other half just kept repeating the mantra of _oh god oh god oh god don't stop_. Then Rodney did something wicked with his tongue and Johns brain shorted out and liquefied as he came hard in Rodney's mouth. Rodney moaned loudly, his mouth still wrapped around John's cock. Then he shuddered and went limp, pressing his hot face into John's inner thigh.

They were both breathing heavily. John stared up into the ceiling, waiting for his body to start working again. He was amazed that that Rodney had come _just from sucking him off_. The thought was almost enough to make him hard again.

After a few moments, Rodney moved back up onto the couch, staring at John with a mixture of horror and awe. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I just totally molested you, but you were looking so… with your stupid hair and your whole…" he waved his hands, seemingly to indicate the whole of John, "…and I just had to…" he trailed off.

John smirked at this. "Why Rodney, this is all so sudden, I don't know what to say."

Rodney stared at him for a moment longer, then narrowed his eyes and glared. "You're a bastard and I _hate_ you."

They watched the rest of the episode with Rodney's head resting comfortably on John's shoulder. It slowly dawned on John that this whole thing he had with Rodney had just gone way past friendship and into something more. It was pretty cool, actually.

* * *

They spent the remaining part of the week in Rodney's bed, exploring exactly how far John was willing to go with the whole gay sex thing. Turned out he was willing to go pretty damn far, since he soon found himself lying on his back, totally blessed out with Rodney's mouth on his cock and two of Rodney's fingers in his ass. Life was good, and Rodney was so distracted by John's body, and all the things he could do to it, that he hadn't written a single word.

"I've wanted you since the moment you came into that bookshop," Rodney said one afternoon, when they were lying in bed, wrapped around each other, all sticky and sated. "I ought to send the owner a thank-you card. If it wasn't for her and her stupid sign and her stupid shop with no customers, I would never have met you."

"You know, you should really send it to your brother-in-law," John answered. "If he hadn't taken you to that creative writing class, you would have never become an author and I would never have read your book."

"You're right," Rodney said with a grimace. "Jeannie will never let me hear the end of this. She just _has_ to be right about everything."

"Completely unlike her brother," John said, nodding sagely. Rodney shot him a look and seemed on the verge of launching into one of his endless rants. John just leaned forward and started kissing him.

* * *

The night before Laura and Carson were due back, John had a nightmare. He had been expecting something like that to happen ever since the crash, but with the hospital-stay and everything that had happened since, it seemed like his subconscious just hadn't had the time to realise what it had been through.

In his dream, he was back in Afghanistan, and all around him was fire, bullets and blood. The sand was blowing in his face, suffocating and blinding him, and he was alone. Alone and bleeding, with no help coming.

John jerked awake suddenly, gasping for breath. He could still smell the smoke and feel the sand against his torn skin. He realized he wasn't alone and started to panic. He tried to roll away from the body he felt pressed against his own, but only succeeded in getting trapped in the sheets. He was ready to rip the damn things to shreds, when Rodney's voice penetrated. "John! John, it's okay, it's me. You're fine, it was just a dream!"

Relief flooded through John at Rodney's words. His heart was still racing and he tried to take long, slow breaths, to calm himself down. When he looked over at Rodney, he realised that he was frightened. John suddenly had the sickening thought that this was it; Rodney would decide that John was more trouble than he was worth and kick him out.

In his mind, he was already out on the street, on his way back to his own apartment, when he heard Rodney ask softly, "Is it okay if I touch you?"

John didn't trust his own voice and could only give a shaky nod in response. Immediately Rodney wrapped his arms around him and held him tight. It was strangely freeing, to be held so safely in Rodney's strong embrace. Something inside of him that had been tangled up in knots finally broke loose and, before John knew it, he was crying. Rodney just held him and stroked his hair and mumbled soft, comforting things that John couldn't quite catch.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Rodney asked a little later, when John's tears had ran out and he was lying limp and exhausted in Rodney's arms.

"Not really," John said hoarsely, but somehow the words came anyway, slipping out of his mouth without conscious effort. He told Rodney everything about Afghanistan. All the things he'd kept bottled up deep down inside of him. All the things he'd never told the shrink they'd made him see. Rodney listened and didn't say a word until John was finished. Then he pressed his lips to the top of John's head and whispered gentle nonsense into John's hair. John fell asleep, lulled by the sound of Rodney's voice, feeling completely safe for the first time in years.

* * *

They slept late the following day and were having a late breakfast when Laura let herself into the apartment. She took one look at John and Rodney sitting at the kitchen counter clad only in t-shirts and boxers, and the sofa that had not been used as a bed in days, and exclaimed, "I go away for one week, and you two start having sex!"

Rodney went bright red and started sputtering, but John just smirked and sipped his coffee. Sometime during the past few days he had realised that, now that he was out of the military, it was nobody's business with whom he chose to sleep but is own.

When Rodney excused himself and went to the bathroom, Laura gave John a big hug and whispered, "I'm so glad for you guys, I really am."

"I think it was only a matter of time," John said, hugging her back and feeling very happy.

* * *

In the middle of March, Rodney went on a two-week tour of the East coast and took Laura with him. John stayed at his place to look after Newton. It wasn't really much of a change since he spent most his free time at Rodney's anyway.

Rodney sent him several e-mails each day, complaining about everything from the food to the stupid questions people asked during his lectures. "I think he misses us," John told Newton, who just yawned and fell back asleep.

John certainly missed Rodney. He had come to realize that his entire life in Sacramento revolved around Rodney, Rodney's work, and Rodney's friends. Carson was in the middle of something very important at work, so John was left to his own devices. He spent most of each day looking forward to Rodney's nightly phone call. Usually, it consisted of just general 'how was your day?' talk, but on a few memorable occasions, the conversation turned into something that could have been the soundtrack to a porn video. Rodney, stroking himself to orgasm on the other end of the line, and describing it all to John in explicit detail, was possibly the hottest thing John had ever heard.

When the two weeks were finally over, John could hardly wait to see Rodney. He was watching TV when he heard the key turn in the lock, and quickly got to his feet to give Rodney a welcome home he would never forget.

It was clear, however, that something was wrong when Rodney stormed into the apartment, dropping his bags on the floor the moment he stepped inside the door. He held a wrinkled newspaper that he thrust into John's hands before John even had time to say, 'Hi, I missed you'.

"Look at this!" Rodney hissed. "Look what that asshole Kavanagh wrote about me!"

John scanned the page and read the passage Rodney had marked with angry red pen. Rodney sank down onto the couch and buried his face in his hands, the very picture of misery.

_No one can deny that McKay is a fine technical writer, but there is something crucial missing in his novels. The feeling, the _passion_ for literature is absent. He can make the words roll over and beg for him, but what good is that when you can't feel the love?_

John looked up. "That's bullshit," he said. "This guy doesn't know what he's talking about."

"I _know_!" Rodney moaned, with his head still in his hands. "The only reason Kavanagh became a critic was because he couldn't get anything published. But the point is that people will read this piece of crap and form an opinion about my books without even _reading_ them! I'll go down in history as 'a fine technical writer', and _nothing_ more!"

If this Kavanagh guy had been in the room with them, John would have gladly strangled him. Anyone who knew Rodney also knew that he poured his whole being, everything he was, into his books. To attack Rodney's writing was akin to attacking Rodney himself. John crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it on the floor. Then he kneeled down in front of Rodney and asked, "Who do you write for, Rodney? The critics? Or the people who buy your books, read them and love them?"

Rodney looked up, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Hmm... maybe you're right," he said slowly.

"Of course I am," John replied, smiling. "We can send him anonymous hate-mail tomorrow, if you like. Right now I want to take you to bed and show you how much I missed you."

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around," Rodney said as John led him over to the bed.

* * *

That night, John let Rodney fuck him for the first time. He had thought about it endlessly. The sensation of Rodney's fingers inside him never failed to drive him _wild_, but he had never been quite ready to go all the way before.

Rodney had already made him come once and he was now sucking on Rodney's nipples, listening to the various needy sounds Rodney made. Good sex always made Rodney babble incoherently and his nipples were especially sensitive, reacting to the slightest touch. This time, it was a low litany of, "Oh god, that's so good, don't stop doing that, _god_, John, you're so hot, I want to, please… I want to fuck you…"

John sat back, looking at Rodney spread out on the bed, face flushed, eyes half-lidded, with his hard cock resting on his belly. "Okay," he said, surprised to hear his own voice come out in a throaty whisper.

Rodney's eyes were suddenly wide open. "What? Are you sure? I mean…"

"I'm sure," John said, and he was. "I want you to."

It was almost comical to see how fast Rodney went for the lube. "I… turn around, it'll be easier this way," he said, and then, when John was on all fours on the bed with his ass in the air, "Do you have any idea how amazing you look like this?"

John moaned as Rodney's slick fingers slowly worked him open. He was already getting hard again, not bad for a guy approaching forty. Rodney hit his prostrate with every stroke, John was so turned on that his arms were shaking with need. "Come on, Rodney," he moaned. "I'm ready, do it now."

"Yes, yes, I…" Rodney almost sounded nervous as he slicked himself up and pressed the head of his cock against John's hole. "God, John, you're so… I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me, just…." John was ready to scream with frustration, "…just _do it_, Rodney, _please_!"

"Right," Rodney said, hands roaming over John's sides, "Let's… let's do it like this…" and pulled John towards him. John leaned back, felt Rodney's cock slowly press inside, so big and hard and _full_. Rodney's arms wrapped around his torso, pulling John back so he was sitting on Rodney's lap, Rodney's chest against his back.

"You feel so good," Rodney murmured in his ear, wrapping John even more tightly in his arms. "Is this… is it good for you too?"

"It's good," John said, clenching around Rodney's cock, and then relaxing again, feeling it sink even deeper until it was all the way in, pressing against all the right places. "It's really, really good."

"I have to…can I move? Please, John?"

John nodded shakily and Rodney began to thrust, his breath hitching in that way that meant he was close. John wrapped his hand around his cock and began to jerk himself off in time to Rodney's thrusts. "Yes, touch yourself," Rodney moaned.

He came spurting all over his hand, and had barely finished before Rodney froze behind him, groaning deeply as he released his own load. They collapsed together on the bed, Rodney softening and slipping out.

"Wow, that was good," Rodney panted. "That was really good."

"Mhmm," John hummed, smiling contentedly. His ass burned, but in a pleasant way. He rolled over and wrapped an arm around Rodney's chest.

"Should clean up," Rodney murmured sleepily, burying his face in John's shoulder. "Gonna be gross later."

"Yeah," John said. He didn't feel like moving though, and they soon fell asleep, wrapped in each other's embrace.

* * *

By the end of April, both John and Carla were forced to admit that John's leg was probably as good as it was going to get. It had healed considerably, but he still limped a bit when he was tired, and he avoided climbing stairs when he could.

John was a little depressed for a while. He still hadn't found a job, and it made him feel like a failure. Every day was the same. He ate breakfast, took a long walk, and then went over to Rodney's in the hope that Rodney could spare him some time. However, the deadline was getting closer, and Rodney had started spending every waking moment working on his book. He made John read not just one, but two drafts, and it was beautiful, brilliant, and pure Rodney.

"I need to find something to _do_," John told Carson one Sunday as the two of them had lunch together. Rodney had kicked John out of the apartment after breakfast, and locked himself in with Laura to work on the book. "I'm starting to go crazy."

Things didn't improve. One evening, John and Rodney were in the middle of a serious make-out session when Rodney stopped mid-kiss and said, "Wait a minute, I just have to write something down." He disappeared and was gone for over three hours. John sighed, reached for a newspaper, and waited for his hard-on to subside. When Rodney finally came back to bed, John was already asleep.

For the first time since John had come to Sacramento, he was beginning to wonder if he might have made a mistake after all.

* * *

Rodney's mood got steadily worse as his deadline approached. John did his best to try to lure him away from the computer, but not even his best seduction techniques could keep Rodney distracted for any length of time. One day, John came from the grocery store to find Laura in tears in the hallway outside Rodney's apartment. He set his bags down on the floor and put an arm around her shoulders. "What happened?" he asked.

Laura sniffed and wiped her tears on her sleeve. "It's nothing. He's just being a jerk again."

"I'll talk to him," John promised, picking up his bags.

Laura shook her head. "Don't bother. He's always like this when he's stressed over a deadline. It'll get better as soon as he sends the manuscript away."

"That's no reason to treat you like this," John protested, and opened the door to Rodney's apartment. It looked as if a small tornado had hit the place. There were clothes thrown everywhere, dirty plates in piles on the floor, and the smell of burnt coffee coming from the kitchen.

Rodney sat in the midst of the chaos, cross-legged on the sofa, hunched over one of his laptops. John approached him as if he were a bomb about to go off. "You made Laura cry," he said accusingly.

"She just wouldn't stop _nagging_," Rodney answered.

John put his shopping down on the kitchen counter, afraid that he might lose his temper and start throwing apples at Rodney if he wasn't careful. "Laura _never_ cries," he said, a little louder than he had planned. "She works her ass off for you, and you never say a word of thanks."

"I don't have _time_ for this!" Rodney shouted.

"The book is _fine_, Rodney!" John shouted back. "You made me read it _twice_, and it's _good_! It's the best thing you've ever written, so give it a rest!"

"I _know_ it's good! Good isn't enough, it has to be _perfect_!"

John took a deep breath and then said with as much calm as he could muster, "I'm going to leave now. Give me a call when you're sane again."

He left the shopping bags in the kitchen and walked out of the apartment, fuming with barely suppressed anger. Laura pleaded with him to wait as he started down the stairs, but he ignored her. What the hell was he doing here anyway? He had thrown everything away for a self-obsessed writer with no people-skills.

John went home to his own apartment. The first thing he did when he came inside the door was check the answer machine, but there was no call from Rodney. No surprise there, John thought angrily as he paced up and down. Rodney's book was clearly more important to him than John was.

The walls seemed to be closing in on him and he found himself almost hyperventilating. What was he going to do now? He didn't know anyone in Sacramento who wasn't related to Rodney in some way. The only person he could think of to call was Carla, but she only reminded him of his damn useless leg. Why hadn't he stayed in Antarctica? It might have been lonely, but it had been _safe_. He could keep people at arm's length there; there was no one who could get under his skin.

John lay down on his bed, staring up into the ceiling, and tried to decide where to go from here.

* * *

It was coincidence, really. Three days after the fight, John got a phone call from a youth centre where he had applied for a job. Their maintenance man had been laid off for drinking on the job, and John was the only one who could start immediately. It was only part-time, and the pay wasn't great, but maybe he was still interested?

John was still very interested.

The youth centre was run mostly by volunteers and was managed by a middle-aged ex-football player by the name of Hal Lindberg. Hal was a barrel-shaped giant of a man who wore his greying hair in a pony-tail, and had a love for Johnny Cash that rivalled John's. He invited John home for dinner one evening, told him all about his football career and how he had returned to his childhood home to give the kids here and now the same chance he once had been given.

John told Hal about his time in the Air Force, and the helicopter crash. When Hal asked him how he had ended up in Sacramento, John muttered something about the climate being good for his leg.

He hadn't heard from Rodney in two weeks.

* * *

John came home from the youth centre one afternoon in June to find a small brown package outside his door. It looked like someone had just left it there, as it had no stamps on it and he couldn't find any sender information

He opened the package to find it contained bound copy of _Gravitation_, the latest novel by M. R. McKay.

John left the book unopened on his kitchen table. He didn't feel like reading it. If Rodney wanted to talk to him, he could pick up the damn phone. John wasn't going to come crawling back. He had started to build his own life, make his own friends.

He did miss Rodney terribly though. Missed talking to him, teasing him, holding him. He had been such a major part of John's life for so long, even before he had moved to Sacramento, that John didn't feel quite complete without him by his side. _Gravitation_ lay where he had left it, unopened on the kitchen table. He found himself looking at it sometimes, occasionally sliding his finger over the cover. Finally, his curiosity overcame his pride and he opened it to the first page. His breath caught as he read the dedication.

_John,_

This is for you.

* * *

Some forty years later, after the Nobel Prize dinner, when John walked with a silver-handled cane and Rodney had lost almost all of his hair, a journalist came up to John and asked him what _he_ thought of Rodney's books. He grinned at her and said, "I'm still waiting for the movies."

The kiss Rodney gave him was on the front page of half the world's newspapers the next day.

-fin-


End file.
